


some sort of affectionate way

by questionably_fortunate_bamboo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Archaeology, F/M, Fluff, Indiana Jones AU, Jonsa Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 23:40:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15806904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/questionably_fortunate_bamboo/pseuds/questionably_fortunate_bamboo
Summary: Jon has been to every corner of the world, but he’s never met anyone quite like Sansa Stark. Those blue eyes and that red hair have been haunting him for years.(for Round Five of the Jonsa Exchange: Film. An Indiana Jones AU for @azulaahai)





	some sort of affectionate way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [azulaahai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/azulaahai/gifts).



> This is for @azulaahai! Hello! I hope you like your gift, dear! You gave me a pretty broad field to work with, so thank you for that!
> 
> Just as a general note, you don't really need to know anything about Indiana Jones for this fic. I just like the idea of Jon as a rough & tough archaeologist in the '30s with Sansa as his self-rescuing badass damsel girlfriend.

They’re not really in the best shape.

Scratch that, actually- Jon’s got bruises from head to toe, a nasty gash on his forehead, some cuts and scratches, and maybe a sprained wrist, but that’s all part of the job. Sansa, however, looks as perfect as a sunny morning in her silky pink dress (which really doesn’t fit in with the whole ‘dangerous quest for an ancient relic’ narrative.

“Where’d you get that dress?” he asks, trying to sound nonchalant.

She grins. “What, do you like it?”

_ Yes.  _ “I like the top bit.”  _ What the hell, what the hell, idiot, what kind of answer is that? _

“Perks of getting captured, I guess. A damsel in distress has to be well dressed.” 

Sansa fixes her hair in the mirror, although it doesn’t really need that much fixing. She could walk through a sandstorm and still look pretty. Jon, however, is in desperate need of a shower to get the blood and dirt off of his skin. The little compartment on the U-boat they’ve stowed away on is comfortable, but does lack a sink or a bathroom. He’ll have to stay filthy like usual, which is just  _ terribly  _ convenient when he’s trying to impress the un-impressible Sansa Stark.

“Do you really think you’ll be able to stop Littlefinger from opening the Ark?” she asks. Jon grunts a little. Maybe that counts as a decent response. He unbuttons his shirt and inspects the damage he’d gotten in the (many) fights he’d been in. 

“Your dad taught me all about archaeology, not about fighting Nazis,” he says, “but if he’d known about that part, he probably would’ve taught me about that too.”

Sansa sighs. “You were always his favorite student. I remember how he always came home from work and couldn’t wait to talk all about your wonderful contributions to the field.” 

Professor Stark had been like a father to him, which complicated the whole fact that Jon was in love with his daughter. In fact, he had met Sansa when the Professor invited him to supper at the family’s large estate. Jon had been twenty, just getting into archaeology, and Sansa had been eighteen. She was fresh out of a prestigious girls’ school, and was headed into her first year at Oxford (one of only three girls in her class). 

Jon Snow had been head-over-heels for her within minutes, even when she saw him spill wine on his shirt and turned to her sister to remark,  _ “Men are, in fact, disappointing.” _

“I’m sorry we didn’t really get a chance to catch up,” says Jon. Their reunion in Nepal had been cut short by the arrival of Littlefinger and his goons. 

“Don’t be silly, that was only partially your fault. After Dad died, the University hired Robb to fill his spot. Arya went off on a quest to find Visenya Targaryen’s lost sword, and Mum was taking care of Bran and Rickon. I needed some space so I decided to travel a bit.”

“And you ended up in… Nepal?” He’s really not one to judge, but a remote village in the Himalayas wasn’t Sansa’s style. She huffs and flops down on the bed, giving him a look. 

“You know, I had a feeling that after a while, you’d just show up out of nowhere and whisk me away on one of your great adventures. That’s just sort of what you do,” she says.

Jon has been to every corner of the world, but he’s never met anyone quite like Sansa Stark. Those blue eyes and that red hair have been haunting him for years.

Desperate for a change of conversation, he fumbles with his jacket, before realizing how much his wounds sting. Sansa jumps into action. He wonders how many times she’ll save him before the day ends.

“Here, let me help you,” she says, grabbing her bag. Before he can protest, she douses a cloth in antiseptic and presses it against the cut on his chest.

“Hey- ow!” He lets out a low hiss and slaps her hand away, immediately regretting it. 

“Oh, stop being such a baby, will you?” She shakes her head. “I’m not a nurse. Just show me where it hurts.”

Jon rolls his eyes and taps his chest, where he’d received several shallow slashes in a close call. Before he can say something like  _ “Don’t bother, I’ve survived worse”  _ which is quite true, Sansa leans over and kisses his collarbone. 

“Uh…” is his intelligent response.  _ Come on, Snow. _

“Anywhere else?”

She’s sitting extremely close to him, so Jon puts on his brave face and hopes she can’t feel his heart doing a jig. He points to a cut on his forehead- it hadn’t been bothering him, really, but it  _ looks  _ a bit painful and that’s all that matters. Sansa pecks a kiss onto his temple, grinning at his flustered expression.

“Where else?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

Hand shaking, he touches his fingers to his lips. Sansa smiles, and her fingers reach down to tangle in his dark curls. Jon closes his eyes, he can feel her leaning in, and their lips are just  _ barely  _ brushing together-

“You wish, Snow.”

His eyes snap open and Sansa is doubled over, laughing her head off. Her cheeks are a deep pink, like a goddess in one of the many paintings he’s seen. Even when he’s utterly embarrassed, he can still appreciate how lovely she is. 

“I… you… hey!” he splutters, not sure if he should be offended or apologetic. His forte had never been in talking to women.

“You’re adorable when you’re all flustered, darling,” says Sansa. “Get some sleep, will you?”

Jon isn’t in any position to argue so he mutters some stupid combination of  _sorry, good night,_ and  _okay._ The moment his eyes close, he remembers how tired he is. As he drifts off to sleep, he can feel Sansa curling up at his side, resting her head on his chest and murmuring  _idiot_ in some sort of affectionate way.


End file.
